The Best Part, or Mr. Monk Has a Guest
a Monk/Sherlock Crossover Fic by SJO
Note: Monk is owned by USA Network, Sherlock is owned by BBC and PBS, not me. This is a much-anticipated sequel to my fic "The Missing Mollies," takes place about a year later.
It was an ordinary day. Natalie came over to Monk's apartment around 7:00 to take him to see Dr. Bell. He was cleaning his windows and preparing to run the vacuum really quickly before they left when Natalie's phone rang. She looked at the screen but didn't recognize the number, or the area code for that matter. She answered, "Hello . . . Oh, hello! Long ti—yes, he's here. Just a minute." She put it down. "Mr. Monk, it's for you."
"The Captain?" he asked.
"Nope."
"Is it Ambrose? Tell him I'm busy."
"No, it's not Ambrose. He sounds rather insistent."
So he took the phone, wiped it down, and held it cautiously to his ear. "Hello?"
A deep voice with a British accent answered rather angrily, "Don't tell me after all this time you haven't got a phone of your own!"
That was so abrupt, Monk nearly dropped the phone, but he picked it back up. "OK, here's the thing—I don't know how it is in England, but in America you have to pay every time you use it, even when people call you! I looked into it, but it's just too much."
"It's a worthwhile expense."
"Look, what do you want?"
"I'm calling to say that John and I are taking you up on your offer. We're coming to San Francisco."
"When?"
"Well, the plane's about to begin its descent, so we should be there in about an hour."
"What?! But—"
"Sorry. I have to get off my mobile now. See you soon." And the line went dead.
Monk hung up and looked at Natalie in a daze. "He's coming here."
"Sherlock Holmes? He's on his way to San Francisco? When?"
Monk sighed. "Today."
"Oh my goodness, we gotta get the place ready. I guess John's coming with him too?"
"Natalie, that can wait. Remember, I still got an appointment with Dr. Bell."
She checked her watch. "Well, yeah, in an hour, and it takes about fifteen minutes to get there."
"Better to get there early, and maybe he can meet with me before they get here. Besides, there's no telling how long it's gonna take in the morning traffic."
"We haven't had a problem with traffic before. You sure you wouldn't rather straighten up the place?"
"Dr. Bell first. Let's go." He started heading to the car.
Natalie was bewildered. He'd rather see his shrink than clean? That wasn't like him.
Monk was quiet on the way to the doctor's, even when Natalie tried to engage him in conversation. She considered speeding a little bit just to get a response out of him, but he did seem agitated in his body language, so she didn't want to put him over the edge. He remained quiet until Dr. Bell called him back. Just as he went in, Natalie's phone rang again. She looked at the screen. The number was still saved in her contacts, so she knew just who it was. She answered, "John, what the heck?"
"I'm so sorry, Natalie," he answered. "I wish I could tell you, but I'm just as much in the dark. I went to the grocery late this morning, well, morning where we are, and when I came back Sherlock said, 'Pack your bags, we're going to San Francisco.' And he's still keeping mum as to why. Is there some big case going on?"
"I haven't heard of any. We just solved one."
"No Moriarty sightings, I suppose."
"Not that I know of, no."
"Well, we're just now renting a car. Sherlock told me he's got Mr. Monk's address programmed into the GPS on his mobile. How far is his apartment from the airport?"
"Not far, but you can take your time. Mr. Monk's got an appointment with Dr. Bell."
"His psychiatrist?"
"Uh-huh. That's where we are now."
"OK, I'll tell him." His voice lowered. "Listen, I'm not sure this is going to be a pleasant. I think . . . Sherlock's upset with him."
"Really?"
"Well, they both got all excited about staying in touch, trading cases, and your partner hasn't even tried to contact us."
"You know, to be honest, I think Mr. Monk's upset with him. He's never talked about you or him or Moriarty or anything. It's almost like it never happened. Do you have any idea why?"
"No, haven't the foggiest. I thought they were getting on so well. At least, as best as one could with Sherlock."
Meanwhile, Dr. Bell noticed how agitated his patient was, despite how quiet he was. "So, what's going on today, Adrian? You seem . . . bothered about something."
"He just called me. Just a few minutes ago, he called me out of the blue. He's coming here."
"Who?"
"Him! I told you about him. From England?"
"Oh, the other detective." He had a tablet on his lap, and he used it to pull up notes from their previous session when they discussed him.
"Yes, him. What am I gonna do? I'm not ready for this."
"I know you're not prepared. It's usually very rude to just drop in unannounced, but he must genuinely think he could help."
"It's not that I won't mind the help. It's just . . . well, you know. We discussed it last time."
"Oh, yes." He was quiet for a moment and tapped his pen on his pad. "You know, Adrian, this reminds me of when I used to play baseball."
Monk groaned. "Another anecdote?"
"Just hear me out. It's the only way you'll understand the metaphor. Back in high school, my team was playing the Springfield Sharks. The first game we had against them was an away game, and we were . . . crushed. They dominated us the whole game. Every trick, every skill we had just didn't seem to matter. And as we studied the game, we realized that it wasn't so much because they were better but because they had the home field advantage. And I remember our coach said that we were too easily intimidated by them. He said they weren't playing our game; we were playing theirs. We further proved that when the Springfield Sharks played us in the finals, on our field, and we crushed them. Just knowing about how it's laid out, the grass, the feel of the dirt made it all familiar. And we realized there was nothing to be intimidated about."
There was a pause. "Is that it? So, what's the point?"
"Well, this guy's coming on your turf, now. Make sure he knows it. This time, just make sure he's playing your game and you're not playing his. You see?"
"Yeah, I think I can do that."
"OK." He went back to his notes to his current session. "By the way, Adrian, next time you see your brother, send him my compliments. I wouldn't be able to figure out this gizmo without his very clear manual."
"You said that last time."
"Did I?" He pulled up the previous day's notes.
Just outside of town, a tiny rental car made its way through a neighborhood. "When was the last time you updated this GPS?" John asked. "This does not look right at all."
"How would you know?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, for one thing, it's so far from the airport. I was sure Natalie said they lived in the city. And this doesn't look like Mr. Monk's kind of neighborhood." The GPS announced that they had reached their destination. John looked at the house. "No, this can't be right."
Sherlock stopped the car and gave him an "are-you-getting-out-or-not" look. John sighed and got out of the car. "You see?" he said pointing to the yard. "Why does he have a swing set? He doesn't have any children."
"It's unused," Sherlock observed.
"Unused?"
"No worn-out grass beneath the swings, rust on the—"
"OK, yeah, I get it, but why would he have an unused swing set in his yard?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps he's a playground equipment enthusiast." He went up to the door and knocked.
A nervous head, obviously not Monk, peeked through the curtain in the small window. Then the door cracked a bit and the head poked out. He said in a meek but still annoyed voice, "Look, I don't know what you're all on about, but I'm not doing any business with the United Kingdom at this time. The metric conversions are just too exhausting, and I always mess up when I try to adjust for dialect. I suggest you contact Steven Dilbridge. He lives in Edinburgh. Good day." He shut the door.
Both of them were somewhat shocked, then John said quietly, "How did we know we were British?"
The door opened again. "That coat you're wearing, Chalmers, manufactured and sold exclusively in London, and you're wearing a patch on your shoulder indicating you were in the British military."
He started to shut the door again, but Sherlock stopped it with his hand and opened it again. "Adrian Monk's brother, I presume."
"Oh, you're looking for Adrian Monk, the detective? You're way off. He lives on Pine Street, in San Francisco. This is Tewksbury. It's more of a suburb, about ten minutes away."
"Told you," John whispered.
The man looked down at his watch. "And now I suppose you should come in."
"Why? What is it?"
"It's 8:00 am, 4:00 p.m. your time. It's time for tea."
"Oh, that's very kind of you, sir, but it's not necessary. Just give us your brother's address, and we'll be on our way."
"Nonsense!" Sherlock interrupted. "John, I'm surprised at you. It's quite rude to forsake another man's hospitality. We would be most obliged, Mr. Monk."
The man started going back in but then turned back. "Ambrose."
"Pardon me?"
"My name, Ambrose . . . Monk." He turned away and went into the kitchen.
John gave Sherlock a funny look. "This isn't like you."
"We might as well. Mr. Monk's probably still meeting with his therapist."
"Well, how did you get his brother's address instead of his?"
"When I searched for 'Detective Monk,' I got a couple results, and I decided to try them both. They seem equally significant."
"Equally significant?"
"Yes. Obviously, this is his childhood home."
John stared at the piles of mail and newspapers stacked all around the place. "Are you sure? This looks like the polar opposite of the Monk we met in London."
"Well, he doesn't live here anymore, does he?"
"No, just his brother who most certainly is a hoarder."
"Please, make yourself at home," Ambrose said in a tone that suggested that nothing would pain him greater. "At least, as best as you can here." They both went into a living room and sat on a couch in the window. "I'm afraid the only tea I have for you is Lipton."
"That's fine," John said.
"But I'll make it up to you with the cookies—I mean, biscuits. Here, I'll go ahead and . . ." He carried into the room several vibrantly colored, narrowed boxes, just about all the colors of the rainbow, and dumped them on the counter.
"Oh. A lot of variety there."
"Yeah. Some little girls just won't take, 'No, I'm not interested in buying cookies today' for an answer. They usually start crying."
Hearing that made Sherlock think of what Ambrose said earlier. "Did someone else from England come here recently?"
"Yes, just yesterday, in fact. He came to the door dressed as a mailman with a parcel. He spoke with a New Jersey accent, but I recognized his shoes. Very expensive, and once again, only manufactured and sold exclusively in London. I told him he could be fined for impersonating a post office worker, but—" Just then, the kettle whistled. "Excuse me." He went back to the kitchen.
John started selecting some shortbread, chocolate-mint, and peanut butter cookies. Sherlock got up and looked at the stacks of mail. At the top of one stack was a small cardboard box, still not opened, with a London postmark. He recognized the handwriting.
"Here you go," Ambrose said, handing him a coffee mug with a big, black number six written on the side. Sherlock was amused and debated making a reference to The Prisoner, but he decided the matter was too grave.
He put the mug down. "Mr. Monk, you are in danger."
"What?"
"The man who gave you this package is very treacherous. He has proven by this that he knows where you live, and he can and will kill you. You must leave, at once."
Ambrose stepped back. "I can't."
Sherlock gave a very annoyed sigh. "Mr. Monk, I just said a very simple, monosyllabic, four-letter word. I may have rushed over it, but I am very certain that I said it. That word is must. It means that this is not an option or a request. It is a command, an imperative. Ability or lack thereof does not apply. You and your brother need to learn that word and add it to your vocabulary."
Ambrose continued to step back and wrapped his hands around a door frame. "You don't understand, sir. I can't!"
"Oh, I understand plenty! Your brother may be afraid of just about everything, even his own shadow, but you have the one fear he has not—the fear of the marketplace, agora-phobia. And I do realize this is quite an inconvenience for you."
"An inconvenience? Try an impossibility! I haven't been able to leave this house since I was a boy!"
"That's not true, is it, Mr. Monk? This house burned, didn't it?"
"Really?" John asked.
"Oh, come on, John! A colorblind dog would've noticed the scorch marks on the side of the house. Now, those firefighters didn't leave you in here to die, did they? Because I happen to notice you're still here, and the house is still here."
"What I said is still true!" Ambrose argued. "They forced me out, yes, but I wasn't able to leave by myself. Outside, it's just too . . . outside. It's much better inside."
"John . . . help me." He started trying to pull Ambrose from the doorframe. John used some of his training to hold Ambrose back. Ambrose was very stubborn, but they finally were able to get him to subdue him and pull him out. Sherlock made sure he took the package as well.
Yet as soon as they got outside, Ambrose started screaming, "HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP! HEEEEEEEEEEELP MEEEEEEEEEEEE! I'M BEING KIDNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPED!"
"Do you have any sedatives?" Sherlock asked John.
"Not with me, I'm afraid. I didn't have time to pack them."
"Wonderful. Well, just try to keep him calm. I'll put in the other address."
"How did you know he was agoraphobic?"
"Well, why else would his brother be so impressed that Mycroft could leave the house?"
As soon as the appointment with Dr. Bell was over, Monk went back to his apartment and started cleaning and straightening. He was acting more like himself, so Natalie started to relax. In fact, he seemed particularly anxious.
"You don't have to be so concerned, Mr. Monk. Remember how much a mess his place was?"
"Natalie, he's from Britain. They have television shows where they judge how clean your house is. I don't want him to think I'm a slob."
"He's not going to think that, Mr. Mon—"
Just then, there was an incessant knock on the door. Monk went to the door, took a deep breath, and said to himself, "It's my turf now." He opened the door.
"BROTHER!" Ambrose Monk wrapped his arms around Adrian's shoulder's way too tightly.
Adrian tried to get over his shock and pulled him away. "Ambrose? What are you . . . how are you-?"
"I've been kidnapped."
"Kidnapped? Who—?"
"Thank God I got away. They just stopped the car, and I ran to you as fast as I could."
"What-? How-? Who-?"
"What's with you, Adrian? When are you going to figure this out?"
It was just too much for Adrian. He couldn't get a word out.
"You have to excuse him. See, we're expecting company," Natalie said. "But you must be a wreck! Come on in, sit down. Do you want some water? I'll get some water."
"Actually, Natalie, I'd like something hot, and some aspirin. My throat's a little sore," Ambrose said quietly. Natalie nodded and went back.
Monk took a deep breath and pulled himself together. "Who did this? Describe them to me."
Ambrose started to calm down well. "They were British men. One of them is in the military. I should've looked closer at his patch to see his rank. But the other's very distinctive. He's tall, dark, curly hair, blue eyes, deep voice, rather gaunt looking, wearing a black trench coat and a scarf."
Adrian's eyes widened as he recognized that description, and as Ambrose was speaking, the door opened a little wider, and Sherlock and John stood in the doorway.
Ambrose shrunk behind his brother. "That's them!"
Monk glared at Sherlock. "What did you do to my brother?"
"Well, hello to you too, Adrian Monk," Sherlock said coldly.
"You know him?" Ambrose whispered in shock.
"I thought I did," Adrian replied quietly.
